The Line Crossed
868 Words
Next day, 8:30 a.m.
Marcus Vale sat in his private office, smiling at Julian. “No fake speeches. Everyone on last night’s raid gets three hundred NeoDollars bonus—from team funds.”
Julian blinked, then gave a thumbs-up. “Classy.”
“Push the interrogation. I want results.”
“On it.” Julian nodded. “Anything else?”
“Wait.” Vale opened a cabinet, pulled out a new pair of leather boots. “What size?”
“Eleven.”
“Perfect—same as me.” Vale set the box on the desk. “Gift from a friend. Never worn. Take them.”
“That’s… expensive.”
“A pair of boots? Nothing.” Vale waved it off. “Go on.”
Julian looked at the box, feeling Vale’s generosity wasn’t just talk. Do the work—he delivered.
“Thanks, Captain.”
“Save it.” Vale grinned.
Julian left with the boots.
…
The next two days, Team Three poured everything into interrogation. Julian hadn’t expected Stephen Cross and Alexander Cross to be this tough. The two low-level dealers cracked, but the brothers—one playing crazy, the other silent—gave nothing.
Interrogation wasn’t Julian’s strength. This wasn’t the wasteland—many of his old methods were off-limits. The team had more experience anyway. He handed it to Zabby, Caleb Frost, and the others, waiting for leads.
Thursday afternoon, past three.
Julian sat in the office bullshitting with Sebastian, Zabby, Tyler Ramirez, and a few others when Caleb Frost strolled in, smelling of liquor.
“f**k—no interrogation? Everyone slacking?” Caleb burped, grinning.
“Just a break,” Julian said.
Smack.
Caleb ruffled Julian’s hair. “Scoot over.”
Julian laughed, shifted. “You always mess with my head?”
“f**k—so what?” Caleb teased. “Turning official soon—getting big-headed?”
“You drinking on duty again?” Julian asked. “Your body can take it, but your wallet?”
“Friends, obligations,” Caleb shrugged, legs crossed. “Family pushing marriage. Set me up with a Japanese girl. Met her—had a few.”
“Ah.”
Julian pulled a Marlboro, lit it deliberately.
“f**k!” Caleb leaned in. “You said no smokes left—hiding from your brothers? Gimme one.”
“Last one.”
“Bullshit.” Caleb grabbed Julian’s wrist.
“Boss—don’t be stingy. Share—even half,” Zabby joked, reaching.
“Really gone,” Julian dodged, laughing.
“Get him!” Caleb pinned Julian’s arms, booze breath hot. “Hold him—flip his pockets. Motherfucker—new guy and already stingy…”
“Frost—stop. I’m serious—no more,” Julian laughed, pushing back.
The room erupted. Everyone except Sebastian and the two injured Thai-Chinese guys piled on, wrestling for the pack.
“Never seen smokes before?” Sebastian laughed, heading for water.
“I’ll fix you,” Caleb pressed Julian’s arms, reaching for the pocket.
Julian suddenly snatched a duty knife from the desk, pinched the blade between thumb and forefinger, and drove it down.
Pfft.
Into Caleb’s thigh.
Caleb froze.
“Don’t mess with me,” Julian said, smiling. “I warned you—I don’t hold back.”
He pulled the knife, stabbed again.
Pfft.
Second hit. Caleb stumbled back.
Blood. The room went dead silent. Everyone stared.
Sebastian froze too, shocked.
Julian feigned surprise. “s**t—really hit you?” He stood, checked the wound. “You okay?”
Caleb winced, angry, shoved Julian. “You pull a knife for fun?”
Julian smiled. “I said stop messing. I don’t know my own strength. You kept pushing—see?”
No one laughed now.
Julian put the knife down, helped Caleb up. “No more jokes, yeah?” He grinned. “Come on—medical.”
Caleb hesitated, didn’t push back, followed to medical.
…
After the dust settled, no one in Team Three dared over-the-line jokes with Julian again—including Caleb Frost. No one treated him like the new guy anymore.
Sebastian, watching from the side, saw it clear: Julian laughed with you, but thought deeper. You thought you were buddies—he let you cross a line, then showed you, in a way no one expected, that you’d gone too far—while saving face.
Sebastian recalled Dominic—once the bully—never bothering Julian again after the tavern. Same pattern.
Only then did Sebastian realize: men like Julian thrived in places like this.
Bold, meticulous, knew people, knew the world.
The wasteland had forged him for fifteen years—for this takeoff.
…
After medical with Caleb, Julian remembered his new apartment—he hadn’t even been. He called Victor, headed to 8800 South Highland Drive.
…
Meanwhile, a warehouse in Slag Row.
A man in his sixties, leaning on a cane, asked, “Julian Ashcroft—never heard of him?”
“I checked,” a subordinate said. “New transfer.”
“New and grabs Alexander and Stephen?” The old man paused. “Someone backing him?”
He turned. “Take men. Find this Julian Ashcroft.”
- Writer
